birds of a feather
by xoVanilla-Bean
Summary: Five times Balthier might have kissed Fran, and one time he didn't. - BalthierFran
1. a chance

a/n; an old idea i wanted to use. it's gonna be a six-chaptered drabblish piece, for fun and practice on two awesome characters. happy reading!

**birds of a feather.**

'Where she walks, no flowers bloom  
He's the one I see right through  
She's the absinthe on my lip  
The splinter in my fingertip' ~ birds of a feather, the civil wars

* * *

_a chance_

* * *

"A Viera?"

Maybe he shouldn't have been so surprised. Vieras were mysterious beings, making them positively craftier than any Hume mind could conceive. The prospect of a mind close to his makes his skin rattle with excitement.

She glares at him, flicking her hair just slightly out of her face, the shackles shaking delicately on her wrists. They look precarious on her thin arms.

"Can Humes say nothing more?" she speaks, her soft drawl making his ears perk. He likes the way she sounds.

"I'm sure they can. But, admittedly, I don't think these guards are seasoned enough to have captured a Viera before," he says, then pauses. "If I may ask, what is a lady such as yourself doing here? I doubt a cell is a place most of your kind ought occupy."

She doesn't answer him for five minutes. He counts them out, almost perspiring at her extreme silence, wanting to speak but not wanting to provoke her into a longer state of quiet. He watches her rise from her perch on the concrete bench, ears swiveling while her eyes dart around the area.

"Cells do not bring me here," she says as an answer, before she makes sure the guard is out of sight, reaching up for a hairpin in her long, white mane, and digging it into the lock of her shackles. They melt off her wrists in seconds.

Balthier's impressed. Never has he seen a woman in such scanty clothing uncuff herself so quickly. He eyes the discarded hairpin on the dusty ground, slowly but deftly going to pick it up while she's distracted by the small cracks of the cell.

"You will not tell me what did bring you?" he asks, shaking the bands off his own wrists.

She doesn't answer as she pulls a device from her breastplate. He looks on in hefty amusement and curiosity, not bothered that his question goes unanswered. In fact, the only reason she could be here would be because she was after the treasure he was after. Nothing else of immediate importance was around them, besides.

She places the device onto one of the hairline cracks she had found, in the top, leftmost corner of the cell. He squints his eyes, only faintly making out a red glow. He tilts his head a little closer to it, before it creates a small explosion.

Balthier gets thrown back into the wall, jamming his shoulder into the concrete. He grunts, but when he looks up, light filters through the dust cloud, paving the way to freedom.

Now, if only it wasn't so high…

The Viera looks out of the cell bars one last time, and, hearing the distant clamor of guards, readies herself into a peculiar stance.

Balthier automatically reaches out and grips her arm. She strikes him with a glare, jerking her arm back, but failing to release herself.

"Does this mean you're leaving me?" he asks, giving her a smile.

Her nose wrinkles and her lip curls, showing him a dangerous amount of fang. Her ears twitch at the sound of the guards getting closer, and he grips her harder.

"Let me go, Hume," she snarls.

"Oh, that isn't the right tone to give to your most recent acquaintance," he almost tuts. "Maybe, to gain my forgiveness, you can just…leverage me out through that hole you made, hm?"

"No," she growls. "Make your own means of escape."

"When you've already made one for us? My dear, the guards are almost here."

Her eyes shadow with something, and he knows that she won't ever give in. Stubborn, and staunch. He likes that.

"Let them come," she says.

And they do. In seconds, they're outside of the bars, some yelling, some taking out the keys to unlock the door and punish them accordingly.

Balthier sighs loudly, never letting go of her arm. "I really didn't want to do this," he tries to say over the racket of the guards, rolling his eyes skyward, then looking back to her pointedly. "But you leave me no choice."

He leans up and casually kisses her, and he's pleased that she is too shocked and angry to respond – not reciprocating or pushing away – wanting the former, but waiting for the latter. He hears the guards stop what they're doing, and he's certain they've stopped to watch, just as in shock as the Viera he's kissing. Not many have witnessed a Hume and a Viera kiss. It was what he was counting on.

He glances at them out of the corner of his eye, bringing up his hand quickly and dispelling a fire spell. Some guards catch, while others yell and shout, looking for the keys they seem to have dropped.

Balthier breaks the kiss, only to look into angry red eyes. He grins.

"I'm afraid you owe me," he says, gesturing to the scrambling guards.

He's only able to blink before she bares her fangs and launches them through the hole. Balthier isn't quite sure how she does it, but he finds himself on solid sand, stumbling to find his balance.

The Viera landed gracefully, already walking away from him.

He runs to catch up with her, coming to stop in front of her.

"We make a good team, don't you think?"

She walks past him, her eyes fixed to the distance.

"I cause ingenious distractions. And you add that singular _push_."

Her ears twitch. "I do not associate with Humes."

"I am not an ordinary Hume."

She doesn't stop walking, clearly unimpressed at his efforts. She doesn't answer him.

It's only when the prison's door opens and the guards start chase do they start running in the same direction.


	2. an insurance

_an insurance_

* * *

"Now, don't you look gorgeous?"

She has to wear a dress – an actual _Hume_ garment for this mission. Balthier can't count how many times and what lengths he went through to persuade her it was worth it.

And the dress he bought her…well, he didn't mention to her that it wasn't a _necessary_ cut of cloth. It was more of the fact that he could still admire her with it on as he could with her armor.

Plus, she was very distracting. They'd have the loot in less than twenty minutes.

"Compliment me when we have the treasure," she says as she walks past him, out to the docking bay. Balthier straightens his suit, missing his gold vest, though he has to admit, they make a rather dashing pair.

"But you are my date, Fran," he says, catching up to her. "I can compliment you as much as I want."

She gives him a look, but it doesn't keep him quiet. He holds his arm out for her to take, and it's a while before she does. He grins at her. She's the best piece of jewelry he's worn, and he tells her as much, much to her displeasure.

When they arrive, Balthier's words ring true. Many of the patrons stare at her – the ones not dancing look over her openly over their wine glasses, the girls looking green in envy, the men's eyes darkening with many a different thing. Balthier's sure he might have to fend a few off, if she doesn't do so herself.

Besides, he explicitly told her not to be so detached– at least, not toward the owner of the estate. He told her to be a little more appeasing to Monsieur Lazarra than she is to him, most days. She had only frowned and raised a brow at him, but he hopes she'll go along with it, regardless.

"First, we lure him out of his hiding place," he whispers to her, leading them to the open floor in the middle of the room. It's a grand entrance, to be sure. The chandelier has several facets, gold and white gold entwining into the lights, amassing a horde of shimmers all across the columns barricading the room. The double staircase leads up to a few hallways, and Balthier can almost imagine the room in which the treasure resides, behind massive oak doors, bundled up in a fragile, glass case.

"And to do that," he says, grinning to her as he places a hand on her hip. "We dance."

Fran stares at him in annoyance, the twitch of her nose the only movement giving her mood away. She reluctantly places her hand in his and one on his shoulder, before Balthier leads them into the newly started waltz.

He's never seen Fran dance before, but she's as smooth as butter as she sways with him. He relishes the feeling, and the fact that she doesn't see it appropriate to look at him.

"You can look at me," he says quietly. "It's only romantic if partners stare into one another's eyes."

Her eyes twitch up to him at his words, and he underestimates their ability to freeze him. Or, rather, his mind. He smiles at her automatically, his feet still moving, though his mind has a hard time focusing.

"Much better," he breathes, wanting to pull an emotion out of her. But her ears twitch up, and she says, instead, "He is fast approaching."

Balthier settles a bit away from her. "Ah, that was quick."

"You said I was distracting," she says, and it almost sounds as if her tone is a little teasing. Her face, however, gives nothing away. He raises an eyebrow at her.

"Not that distracting," he says. He glances up to see the man of the hour swiftly making his way toward them. Balthier wishes they had longer time to dance. He glances back to her, only to see her still glancing to him.

"Make sure you look at him, Fran," he says. "Transfix him. I'll be back shortly."

The man then taps Balthier's shoulder, politely asking to take his place in the dance. Balthier smiles, and let's Fran take her place into another man's embrace. He gives her one last glance, then a wink.

Then he subtly makes his way up the stairs, and to those terribly beautiful, massive, oak doors down the hallway.

When he makes it back to the banister overlooking the room, Patting the treasure close to his chest, he scans the floor for them. It isn't hard to see them – they've made a wide berth among the rest of the couples. It is easy to see why.

Fran is letting the man kiss her. _Really _kiss her.

Balthier sighs. He told her to transfix him, not to let him_ play_ with her – though, she certainly was doing her part in distraction. The whole room seems to be giving them a spotlight from their eyes. He had to give her a kudos for that, at least.

He makes his way down the stairs calmly, excusing himself between couples on the floor.

He stands behind the man, and clears his throat loudly. He doesn't budge. Fran doesn't either, strangely. Balthier sighs again.

"Pardon me," he says, loudly, grabbing the man's shoulder. The man spins around, and his face is dazed.

Against his better judgment, Balthier envies him. He sees some of the lip gloss he told Fran to put on smeared all over his mouth.

"She," Balthier points to Fran, who also has a glazed over look on her face, much to his disconcertment, "is my date."

The man blinks. "Oh…oh, yes! She is, isn't she? I beg your forgiveness, my good sir, but she…"

Balthier's mouth tightens, but he nods knowingly. "She can be quite attractive, yes. Beauty is the only one at fault here."

The man nods back, face clearing of their clouds, seemingly at ease. But he doesn't move. Balthier's eyebrows twitch.

"And…due to this fault, I'm afraid we shall be going," Balthier says pointedly. "Fran?"

Fran walks around the wealthy man, coming to stand at Balthier's side. Her eyes remain on the man.

Balthier persistently hooks their arms. "Thank you for the invitation," he says, a little more stern than he means. "Perhaps next time, you won't take advantage of my partner."

The man turns white. "You misunderstand. She - "

Balthier punches him, punctuating the end of his sentence. He rubs at the delicate cuffs of his shirt as he watches the man stumble in shock.

"Good evening," Balthier says, then he leads both of them out of the estate, several pairs of eyes following them.

"That was unnecessary," Fran says once they're out in the street. She slips her arm away from his. "He will remember you."

Balthier frowns at her. "As well he should. What kind of date would I be if I let him get away with that?"

Fran shakes her head, almost tiredly. "Please, Balthier. It was I who instigated it."

Balthier already knows that. Perhaps that's why his anxiety is so high, suddenly. "All you had to do was look at him."

If he wasn't looking at her so closely, he's certain he would have missed the ghost of a smile that slides across her face.

"What is the fun of that?"

He stops walking, eying the skin of her back underneath the moonlight. It seems he's underestimated her ability to surprise him.

"I think I'm finally rubbing off on you," he says, an easy grin becoming his face.

"Do not flatter yourself," she says, dryly. "Arrogance is unbecoming."

"That will not change."

He catches up to her when she doesn't slow her pace. He can't help placing his hand on the small of her back, hand drenched in her silkiness.

"But you can't tell me he kisses better than I."

He admits the arrogance is something to protect him. She must see right through him, with how she counteracts him all the time.

She stares at him dubiously. "All Humes are different."

"You aren't answering my question."

"It is not befitting to answer."

He places a hand over his heart. "You toy with me."

"Discouragement never works with you, does it?"

"Never."

And then he leans over and kisses her, cleaner and more refined than the man in the ballroom. The main goal is to prove a point, but the second is to make sure she knows that he is better than the rest.


	3. a realization

_a realization_

* * *

"This will not end well."

The smoothness of her voice is such a lovelier thing to listen to than the crumbling of the temple. Few rocks shatter in front of them, but they both hang near the wall. The entrance is stuffed with the collapse of the earthquake's tremor, and few torches are still lighting the area they've taken to stand in.

If he was supposed to be buried alive, he thinks, he's glad she'll be his company.

He looks over to her. "Maybe not, Fran. But I've you."

She cuts her eyes to him, purposely ignoring the affectionate inflection in his voice. "I may not be afraid of death, Balthier, but you are."

He takes a few steps closer to her. "How do you deduce that?"

She looks over him slowly, as if the rocks aren't falling all around them.

"You are smiling," she says. "You smile when you are either happy or uncertain."

He leans against the wall, staring at her staring at the temple. What has it been? Two years, already? He starts to fear she can read him like a book.

"So I cannot be...happy, right now?"

"It is unlikely."

He frowns at this, and she sidesteps out from under a falling rock's shadow, bringing them side by side.

"Alright, Fran," he says. "So I'll say you are right. I'm positively terrified. Do you think..."

She glances back to him, raising a brow.

"Spare me one last request," he says, spelling out each word. "For a dead man walking."

She takes her time thinking about it. Balthier keeps himself from fidgeting.

"We will see each other again," she says, finally. "In the home of nature."

"And it will be a marvelous thing," Balthier answers. "But this is something unobtainable in nature."

She tilts her head at him, her flat stare evolving into one of curiosity. "Fine."

He smirks triumphantly, then he quickly closes the distance between them, weaving his fingers into her hair - so silky and light - and kisses her. He lets it be quiet, at first, so she can acclimate. He lets it be gentle pressure, slight movement, keeping her head tilted so she won't rip away.

He eventually coaxes her into participating, and when he feels her clumsily kissing him back, he deepens it, letting their tongues tangle, feeling her fangs and her mouth, tasting her like he's tasted no other. He hears her breath sharpen, her claws moving to grip his shoulders. The stitches in his shirt pop, and her nails pierce his skin, but he's too far gone to waste time teasing her about it.

There's an explosion - very large and very loud - up and off to their immediate right. Balthier regrets having to let go of her, but he twists away from her, grinning when her mouth tries to follow him. Her eyes are heavy, and he swears they've never been redder, and her cheeks have that tint of pink in them.

All that practice finally paid off, he thinks.

"Ah, Nono. He does have great timing."

The moogle is just visible through the clouds of dust, throwing a flimsy ladder through the hole with the help of the others. Nono bounces up and down when he sees them.

Balthier calmly trots over to the ladder, avoiding the loose debris still clattering from the ceiling. He glances over his shoulder. "Coming?"

Fran stares at him, then her lips curl distastefully as she follows him.

He notices her discreetly wipe at them with her palm when they've made it back to the stable grounds of the Strahl.


	4. a doubt

'Oh, we're a pretty, pretty pair  
Yes, we are  
All, all the king's horses  
And all of his men  
Couldn't tear us apart' - birds of a feather, the civil wars

* * *

_a doubt_

* * *

There's a balcony on the underside of the Strahl. When they are floating or on autopilot, Balthier usually finds himself walking there or leaning on the railing before he realizes what he's doing or where he is. Overlooking the beyond, the ground thousands of feet below them, always shatters whatever his anxiety holds, and it makes his troubles become insignificant..

Seldom does he find Fran here. She keeps herself occupied with calibrations or coops up in the engine room, tinkering with yet another piece of equipment or more wires to untangle.

He twists the rings around his fingers absently, staring into the clouds passing underneath.

He's surprised to hear the clicks of Fran's heels sound behind him, stopping just to his left. Her long fingers touch the rail, and she taps her claws.

He glances at her, and he wonders about her, too. Most of the time she's in the back of his mind or the tip of his tongue - always there and ready. He can't shake her, and he's tried to realize if he wants to shake her. To not have her so close to him. It isn't always fun with her face imprinted behind his eyes.

"You never come out here," he says. "Something on your mind?"

He knows even if there is something on her mind, it might be days before she even mentions it. Her patience is a maddening thing.

She follows his eyes to the clouds as well, and he notices the slight hesitation of her lips.

"You are young," she says. "Humes age so quickly. In a few years time, you will be ready to have a family, will you not?"

In a few years time, he'll only be twenty-four, still alive and fully incapable of finding one woman to settle down. He isn't sure if she even knows his age, but he decides to forgo asking, or telling. He isn't one for thinking too far into the future. His life might not make it very far at all. A family sounds like a daunting task, besides. And it's not like he knows her age, either.

"I don't know, Fran," he says, instead. "Are you offering to be the mother of my child?"

Fran shakes her head at his joking. "Perhaps it is too soon to ask."

This sentence wakes him up a bit. "My question? Or yours?"

She only avoids his glance, which is an unfortunately normal occurrence.

"I mean to say, Balthier, is that when you decide to retire your occupation, you will give me time to adjust."

Balthier looks at her for a while, holding back all the quips ready on his lips. He tries to find any bit of regret or sadness in her face, but is not surprised when he doesn't. She's always been wonderful at hiding emotions and things. It's a thought he'll ponder later about whether she really means all the things she's saying now. He can ask her, but he's learned that words will only confuse the air between them even more.

"What kind of leading man would I be," he says, "if I abandoned my leading lady?"

"Do not jest, Balthier," she says, and her voice is hard. "There will come a time when you will want to quit this. And I will be ready when you decide."

What broke her trust, he thinks, to make her so certain that he'll leave her?

He forces himself from asking. She can keep her secrets, if she wants. Maybe she will tell him one day. Maybe it will be on his deathbed.

"What if I'm never ready?"

"If's are fragile words," she drawls.

He weighs his options on speaking. He contemplates a few moments, then says, "Words will not sway you, hm?"

"For Humes, words do not have to mean a thing. You should know this most of all."

It's a wonder she isn't a poet or a public speaker. He can feel her words latch onto him like parasites, and they make him almost physically hurt. It should have been long enough for her to come to realize that he would never lie to her.

"I know, Fran," he says. "Actions are much more expensive than mere words."

She looks at him, and he can see her mind working. "Charm is a thief."

He smiles at that. "Good thing I decided to become a pirate, eh?"

She looks away from him again, to the faraway mountain peaks of Dalmasca. Her stance is always steady and sure, as straight as one of her arrows lingering in her quiver.

To prove to her that he will stay will last the entirety of his lifetime. When he dies, she will finally understand.

For now, he touches her back, and he says, "May I kiss you, Fran?" And he only asks because he's almost certain that there won't be a woman more fitted to be asked.

She doesn't answer him, but she doesn't have to. She'll let him kiss her, just as she has the last times, even if she doesn't participate - even if she doesn't care. It might be a while until he knows what her thoughts are on them, but right now, he'll relish her lips and her face and her hair, because it is all so much to take in.

She burns him, always, and he has yet to get used to the feeling under his skin.


	5. a comfort

_a comfort_

* * *

It's a strange feeling, after you kill your father.

There's no satisfaction in it, no sense of freedom from a burden. Even after all those years he's hated Cid, there is not any sweetness in the taste of his blood, nor is there any redemption with having red on his hands. It's all he can see now, when he looks down at himself. A bitter feeling, and heavy, like the Judge's armor, reeking of deceit and betrayal. Perhaps there's supposed to be forgiveness in him, after the end, like it's something expected, and if he goes along with it, he'll feel better - he'll see everything clearly, he'll -

But the truth is that he's always gone against the grain. Forgiveness is not in him, nor may it ever be in him. It certainly isn't now.

He takes to spinning the rings on his fingers, a bit quieter and restrained these days. There's a distinct tone around him from the others, and most of them tip toe around where he sits. They don't comment about his reticence, or the sharper angles of his face.

The princess talks to him normally, and he's thankful for that. She's been through a torrent of tragedy, and it's given her the wisdom of knowing how to speak. Fran stays by his side, sometimes speaking in non-sequiturs, sometimes in her bouts of thoughtful words. But she knows his feelings as well - they are very much alike in this regard. The running and isolation from family doesn't change toward different people, nor different species.

She finds him on the upper deck of the Strahl, a little hunched, hands tight on the rails. When he hears her, he straightens and shakes his head.

"I take you are not enjoying the view," she says.

He places a hand on his hip and half-smiles. "What is there to enjoy? We see it every day."

"Not every one has this freedom, Balthier."

He sighs, placing his weight on the back of his heels. "No. No, they don't."

"Come inside," she says, after a bout of silence. "They've started a meeting. We cannot start without the leading man."

He looks after her, pulling her back from walking away.

"Fran," he says. "Just...just a moment." He brings his other hand up to secure her other arm, staring into her eyes. And he takes her in a kiss, hard, rough, and unintelligible in a rhythm. He doesn't care if she doesn't get it, or if she doesn't understand his grief. But she must understand it - how could she not? He didn't see her cry after the visit to Eryut Village, but her legs held a different kind of weight, and her heels wobbled for the first time he'd seen.

She never came to him for any type of comfort. But he's a weak man, and he needs a facet to let it run out. He's got to bleed out all the red from him, or else he'll run again, run somewhere darker than before.

He feels her fingers run through the hair on the back of his head, her nails scraping his scalp in a tranquil gesture. He feels his skin break open, and he hopes to have something leave him, soon.

"Let us go," she says, breaking away from him. "They are waiting."

She intertwines their fingers, leading him to the door. She releases them once they make their way inside.


	6. a time he didn't

_a time he didn't_

* * *

It's night. Balthier placed the Strahl in stealth, anchoring a few miles from Bur-Omisace. The sky is dark and shimmering, and he turns off the glowing from the panel to be able to see it clearly. He sighs, leaning backward into his seat.

He never thought contentment would come so easily - some odd years ago, it was far, far from his mind. Underlining his thoughts were all kind of dark, depressing things. He was always good at hiding them, regardless. It was a feat he became so used to, it took a while for him to realize the day that came where he didn't have much to conceal. Perhaps the feeling of holding the world in his hands gives one a greater detail of emotion.

He closes his eyes, sinking deeper into the chair. He wonders if Fran feels the same way. How long has she been out of that village? Fifty-five years? Fifty-six? Surely that would be enough time to broaden her shell of feeling, would it not? He can only guess. She is impossible when he tries to ask, and he frustrates too easily when she doesn't answer. He always tells her things, now - a gradual process, at first, turned into something natural, like a habit. Sometimes, he doesn't have to say anything at all.

Speak of the devil, he thinks, once he picks up her muffled footsteps in the compartment. Think of her too long, and she's always bound to find him. He absently wonders if her ears can tune into the frequency of his mind.

He hears her stop once she stands by him, and he places his hands behind his head, yawning.

"Can't sleep?" he asks.

"No," she answers slowly. "My mind runs rapid."

He peeks up at her through one eye. He really loves how she wears his old shirts when she goes to bed.

"Whatever for? Your mind should be at ease. No bounties on our heads, a room full of gold..." he trails off tiredly.

It is silent for a long time. Balthier almost dozes off.

"That is not what ails me," she says softly.

Balthier sighs. "Do you mean to say you would _tell_ me what ails you? Let's be serious, Fran."

"Words are a cheap way to relay what is on the mind."

At this, he blinks and tries to wake himself up. Those sound suspiciously like something he told her, once.

He shifts, looking at her. "Fran?"

She walks a few more steps until she's in front of him. She's terribly tall when he's sitting down, even without the heels.

Her eyes have a sheen to them - he's not sure what it is. He's certain he hasn't seen that look on her ever since...

Ever since that temple, and that earthquake. But really, had she honestly believed they would have died that day? Considering everything else they've been through, that was a drop in a river.

But the stare astounds him. The sleep quickly disintegrates out of his eyes, and she has his full attention. She moves a little more, and he watches her as she comes to sit in his lap. He's frozen in such surprise, he acts like he's never had a girl sit in his lap before.

"Fran..." he says, this time breathing out her name. Her heat immediately seeps into him, and he's all too aware of how his shirt rises on her when she shifts, and how it must not be long enough to conceal her bottom, how she's only wearing underwear underneath, how thin it must be. She's very close to him. He's not sure if they've ever been so close before.

"But actions are expensive," she says. Her breath reaches his face, fans out over his cheeks. He places his hands on her thighs, and they're warm and smooth, and he wants to press his palms into them, to see if they'll disappear underneath her skin.

"What shall you show me, Fran?" he asks, trying to decipher her eyes and her lips. He thinks she may be determined, and curious, and possibly even lustful, though he's pushing the thought.

She reaches up with a hand and cups his face. She runs a thumb over his cheek and down over his lips. It lingers there, and she rubs it once, looking at it then at his eyes. He isn't sure what she'll see there. He's feeling a lot of things running through him, but his heart is by far the most prominent.

He looks away from her eyes to her lips, and they've never been so tantalizing. They've never been so intimate in the way they twitch or how they look.

But he makes no move to close the space between them. He wants to wait for her, to watch everything she does. His hands tighten on her thighs, and he has to make certain that they won't wander.

Her other hand reaches over, and her nails cut the buttons. They pop off and click onto the floor, but neither of them care. Balthier doesn't feel any remorse for the shirt lost as her fingers find the line of his chest. The pads of her fingertips follow the opened gap made from his shirt, and she takes her eyes away from his face, examining his muscle and bones and structure. Her eyes burn a path inside him, and he knows she's able to see his organs attached inside him. She can feel the heat he's giving off into the chilly night air.

Her fingers end at the waistline of his pants. He ardently wishes he wasn't wearing them.

"I guess we may have to take this elsewhere - " he whispers, coming out of her spell from the halting of her fingers. He stops short when she decides to keep going.

Her hands graze sensitive fabric, and he exhales sharply. These pants are much thinner than he'd thought.

"Fran..." he trails, voice bordering on a touch of desperation.

Her eyes look back up to him, and she scoots her body closer to him, right over where he wants it most.

Then he realizes she isn't wearing anything underneath.

His eyes widen a fraction, though he's not sure either of them notices with her nose touching his nose, the heat of her mouth encompassing as completely as the heat between them. Her lips are just an inch away from him.

"Are you still the leading man?" she asks, reaching down to her thigh and unlatching his hand - he hadn't realized how tightly he was holding her - and brings it up to her chest. Her shirt's opened and unbuttoned, and when had that happened?

Her heart is a calm drumbeat under his palm. He feels it for a second, before sliding his hand down her front.

"I'm always the leading man," he says, closing his eyes, then opening them again, inhaling her deeply. "But it seems you ought to have the part, tonight."

Her lips move, and he guesses that she gives him a smile. She tilts her head, and she makes the inch disappear, cupping his face while he cups the rest of her body. He lets her have her way with him, kissing him softly first, almost like it's an experiment. No matter how many times he's kissed her before, this might be considered the first - there are so many subtle changes with her movements that if he doesn't think, he forgets where he is. His hands are as clumsy as when he was sixteen, grasping to find a balance on her, finally finding the velvety wires of her muscles, how they ripple with every shift she makes. He digs his fingers into her, jerking her as close as he can.

She gets bolder, soon, her delicate kiss turning into something less delicate - more vicious and more foolhardy. The kiss starts to remind him of her, and he likes this much better. He moves his hands up her back, underneath the shirt, and starts to fight back more enthusiastically. Her nails move down to his stomach and she pricks him with their sharpness, a deep growl reverberating between them.

He smiles against her while she scores his skin, and he's never dreamed of having it any other way.

* * *

fin.


End file.
